"I've a good mind not to speak to you again, Sir!" cried Winifred, with difficulty repressing a tear of vexation; "you've acted unfairly. . The three young men exchanged expressive glances. All the turnkeys were assembled. I have written, called—of what avail is anything—against that look. All the same, I wish I had that fellow by the throat! Just the virile, unregenerate man in me wishes that. Bitte!. . . "Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled. All at once Melusine remembered Pottiswick, and the errand he had run.
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